


the kids are all right

by gdgdbaby



Series: give my regards to soul and romance [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Road Trips, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Damn, son," Ray says, a mournful look on his face as he twists the volume knob all the way down. "You're forcing me to drive at least four thousand miles with you, and I'm not even allowed to croon any John fucking Denver when the mood strikes because of your inexplicable hate, dude."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kids are all right

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Долгая дорога](https://archiveofourown.org/works/703845) by [SleepSpindles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepSpindles/pseuds/SleepSpindles)



> post-oif road trip fic because of reasons. ft. tony espera, nate fick, rudy reyes, walt hasser, et al. liberal use of artistic license with respect to certain parts of the timeline and how marine corps leave works. warnings for racist/ableist/homophobic language and ptsd. originally posted at [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/84584.html). now with [podfic](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/126876.html) by the wonderful [chemm80](http://archiveofourown.org/username/chemm80), [chinese translations](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=70490&extra=&page=1) by the lovely [sandy](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/1441111), and [a gorgeous banner](http://25.media.tumblr.com/b241d7e5a43271aa4daea20c1d9ced89/tumblr_miea5aTNqP1r02z53o1_1280.gif) by [SleepSpindles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepSpindles).

"Really, homes? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Ray scrubs a hand over his eyes and sags against the narrow doorframe. He's in a worn t-shirt and a ratty pair of boxers, the previous day's five o'clock shadow a stubborn smear against the pale skin of his face. It's been twenty odd days since their triumphant return to Pendleton and someone could probably crawl into the deep circles still smudged beneath Ray's eyes and never find a way out. The sun's barely up at five in the morning and Ray is scowling up at him, struggling not to yawn, eyelashes gummy from sleep. His hair's pressed flat on one side from where it was, mere minutes ago, undoubtedly crushed into the standard-issue pillows the Corps furnished South Mesa Lodge beds with.

He might be the best thing Brad's seen all month.

Brad braces a hand against the wall. "What do you mean?"

Ray, perpetuating his established tradition of cavalier disregard for decency, reaches into his boxers and scratches casually. "Oh, I don't know, Bradley—maybe I just don't understand why, after two months of riding shotgun for me in the Fertile Crescent, you'd actually want to spend the rest of libo doing the same exact thing. In _this_ godforsaken country of all places." He takes a brief pause for breath. "Also, although recent events might suggest otherwise: I'm not your personal chauffeur, dickwad."

Brad's lips tilt upward. "My mistake."

"Apology accepted."

Brad hefts his bag. "So, are you going to invite me in?"

"What the fuck," Ray says, rather fatalistically. He throws his arms in the air and shuffles back into the apartment.

Only three weeks and Ray's temporary housing's already descended into a complicated state of organized chaos. Half-empty bags of chips and crushed Red Bull cans are littered everywhere, and there's an open pizza box on the coffee table, nibbled crusts arranged artfully within. "Nice digs," Brad says drily, and moves a stack of clothing off the couch so he can sit down.

"Listen," Ray calls from the kitchenette. There's a sound of running water and the quiet click of plastic on metal. "If you want to traipse around the continental United States and visit the Johnson Twine Ball or the world's largest pecan or some shit—go right ahead. Take Trombley with you. Or Walt. Or the fucking LT, fuck, Brad—I don't care. Leave me out of it."

Brad eases his backpack off and sets it down next to his feet. "Have you ever even seen the Johnson Twine Ball?"

Ray pokes his head into the living room and points a spoon at him. "Fuck yes I've seen that shit—and frankly, I'm pretty sure the biggest ball of twine I've encountered resides somewhere inside Encino Man's skull, but hey, that's just me."

The usual, knee-jerk _don't talk about your COs like that_ forms in Brad's throat, but he swallows it down.

Ray glances at him knowingly before ducking back into the kitchen.

The mounted wall clock in the room ticks with generic fervor. "How's the Ripped Fuel wearing off?" Brad asks. His fingers fiddle idly with the frayed edge of the sofa for wont of something to do.

"Like a motherfucker." Ray reemerges with two mugs of coffee and passes him the larger one, a tiny pinch of milk and sugar mixed in the way he likes it. "You know how detox is."

Brad nods. The last time Ray crashed so hard was in the middle of their tour of Afghanistan. It hadn't been a happy time.

"Doing better, though," he says. "Over-the-counter stimulants ain't got nothing on me."

Brad notes Ray's periorbital circles, the vague, occasional tremor of his limbs, and comes to his own conclusions.

Ray must see it in his face because he waves it off, blows twice over the top of his mug. "Anyway, I was saying—I'm sure Trombley would love nothing more than to go on a stateside road trip with you. Meaningful father-son bonding time and all." Impressively, he manages to throw himself into a squashy armchair and spill not a drop of liquid in the interim. "Though Hasser'd be more shitting-rainbows cheery about the entire thing."

Brad raises his eyebrows. The mouthful of coffee he gulps burns all the way down.

Ray grins. "Rudy's really into the whole soul-searching New Age peace and love bullshit—oh, but he's not even in the state right now, is he? And Trombley's probably busy going down on his wife in Michigan. Damn. It's so hard to keep track of these fuckers. Well—whatever, you've still got Poke and the LT to loom over and coerce into vacationing with you, so—what gives, yo?"

"They can't drive," he replies, voice wry. _Not like you can_ is the obvious unspoken clause, here, but there's also _you're the one I want to come with me_ and _why the hell do you think I'm at your fucking apartment at ass o'clock on a Saturday morning?_ and a myriad of other things Brad can't find the words to say out loud.

"I'm honored," Ray mumbles morosely around the lip of his mug. "Glorified transcontinental cabby, that's me."

Brad palms the back of his neck and opens his mouth in a vain attempt to lay any misgivings Ray might have to rest, but then he spots the familiar curve of telltale dimples, and—"You little shit."

"What?"

Brad shakes his head. "You're totally going to say yes."

"No," Ray counters adamantly, the lopsided half-smile spreading further across his face like he can't help it, "it's the worst idea I've ever heard, and that's counting Captain America telling us to shoot a wild dog and the many other retarded gems that spilled forth from the officer fuck-ups on the way to Baghdad. You're really desperate, Brad. What is this, a quarter-life crisis?"

"This is your idiotic, counterintuitive way of saying yes," Brad reiterates, and leans back against the couch, fingers curled around his cup. "I don't know why you enjoy making these things so hard for yourself, Ray."

Ray sighs and drains his last dregs of coffee with a noisy slurp. "By the end of this we're going to want to tear each other's heads off. I mean—Jesus, aren't you tired of me?"

"What do you want me to do, stroke your ego, give your dick a couple of pulls?" Brad slips into a nasally falsetto. "Oh, Ray, I could _never_ be tired of you—"

"Alright, alright," Ray says, laughing a little. "That's fucking disturbing, never do it again."

"If I didn't kill you for being an obnoxious, hyperactive fuck in Iraq, it's probably safe for you to assume that I won't be doing it anytime soon."

Ray shrugs carelessly, a loose upward cant of his shoulders. The exhaustion's bone-deep for all of them, but three weeks home makes everyone lose the tension of war in increments—and Ray was never as high-strung as the rest of the platoon, whether by default or design. "You have a point."

He reaches a hand out. Brad passes him the empty mug and sends him a disgusted look that's happily ignored when Ray shoves a pair of socks off the tiny dining table in the corner and stacks the dirty cups there in its stead.

"Hey—we aren't leaving now, are we?" Ray gestures at the rest of his clothes strewn around the room, scratches his head like he's not sure exactly how all his shit ended up where it is now. "It's gonna take me forever to pack."

Brad smiles and kicks at the bulging backpack on the floor. "The fuck do you think this is for?"

 

 

"I'm almost insulted," Ray comments a couple hours later. They're well on the road, all the things Brad thought to bring stowed away in the back of the rented Magnum, along with the haphazard bundle of clean clothing Ray managed to throw together. "You assumed I'd just agree."

"Didn't you?"

"Go fuck yourself, Brad," he says, but he's dimpling again. The rising sun paints the insides of the car with muted shades of gold and gray. Brad looks out the window and watches the trees sail by.

 

 

They spend most of the first day driving up Interstate 5. June's shifting into the high summer of July and the skies above them are so clear they're practically translucent—but then, after months of shamals in Iraq, even the smoggy Los Angeles skyline seems sharp and lucid as they speed by.

The comfortable silence is broken by a sudden acceleration and Ray's voice filtering through the semi-lucid haze induced by staring out the window for hours on end. " _Country roads, take me home_ —"

Brad jerks a little in his seat. "Oh, hell no. You know how I feel—"

"— _to the place I belong_ —"

"Ray."

" _West Virginia, mountain momma_ —"

Brad leans forward and flicks the radio on, tunes it to some random channel blasting rock music.

"Damn, son," Ray says, a mournful look on his face as he twists the volume knob all the way down. "You're forcing me to drive at least four thousand miles with you, and I'm not even allowed to croon any John fucking Denver when the mood strikes because of your inexplicable hate, dude."

"We're not anywhere near Virginia, Ray."

"West Virginia, homes, get it right!" Ray exhales and stretches an arm out his open window to feel the wind rushing past. "And that's not the point."

"Please, do enlighten me."

"The point is—the fact that you can recognize all this shit as country music means that you've heard enough of it to be intimately familiar with everything. What does that say about you, huh, Iceman? Are you too ashamed to profess your true love for the genre? Do you put Tim McGraw on repeat at night to help you fall asleep?"

Brad inclines his chair and kicks his feet up. "Or maybe I've just listened to enough to know that it's the worst."

Ray shoots him an irritable look. "Hey, get your goddamn shoes off my dashboard."

" _Your_ dashboard? Recall that I'm the one who rented this car."

Ray swerves sharply and Brad's left leg ricochets against his armrest. "And I'm the one driving it, motherfucker!"

Brad grunts in response.

"At least take your fucking sasquatch sneakers off before you put your feet up. Show some respect, yo."

Brad's mouth falls open. There are so many hypocritical things packed into that one tiny sentence that he doesn't even know where to begin. In the end, he just slides his tennis shoes off and tosses them into the backseat. "There. Happy?"

" _On the road again_ —"

" _Ray_."

Ray rolls his eyes and cranks the radio back up. "Okay, okay."

 

 

"So why are we in Oakland? If Afghanistan and Iraq hadn't happened I'd say I'm kind of afraid for my life."

"Thought we'd drop by and see Poke."

Ray casts him a sidelong glance. "Last I heard he was kicking it in Los Angeles."

Brad shakes his head. "Nope, he flew up to visit extended family for a bit."

"You're creepy and a borderline stalker, you know that?"

He waves his cell phone in Ray's face. "There's this thing called texting, Ray. Helps you keep up with your friends. You should try it sometime."

"Fuck that," Ray grumbles, taking a right down exit 41B. "You know, that's the problem with kids these days. All this new technology is what's driving America's next generation into the ground."

Brad's mouth twitches. "How do you figure?"

"Instant gratification, homes! Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned afternoon on someone's front porch shooting the shit? Or even just a goddamn phone call? Also—where's the illustrious Antonio's house?"

Brad rattles off an address and Ray hangs a left.

"Anyway: no calls, no long walks on the beach. Instead, if we're lucky, we get a two hundred character text message filled with god-awful grammar and meaningless content every once in a while. What the fuck is up with that? Our forefathers would weep their skinny white asses off if they could see us now. It's a goddamn shame."

" _Convenient_ is what it is, Ray. Technology augments our opulent, modern lifestyles. But I wouldn't expect a whiskey tango trailer trash fuck-up like yourself to understand."

"Thanks," Ray says drily. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

It's well into the afternoon by the time they pull up to a suburban house. The earlier heat has simmered down into an easy balminess. The last time Brad was in Oakland his motorcycle was nearly stolen and it was freezing as fuck. Thankfully, everything about this trip is shaping up to be better.

Another car's already parked in the driveway so Ray screeches to a halt in front of the mailbox instead. He pulls his aviators down as he gets out. "He knows we're coming, right?" Ray asks. "I mean—of course he does, how else would you have gotten this address—"

"He doesn't," Brad interrupts, and leans down to ring the bell.

"Coming!" someone calls from inside the house. When Brad straightens back up, Ray's shaking his head, a deeply amused look on his face.

"You know, there are better ways to pull a fast one on your assistant team leader, and most of them involve—"

There's a muffled sound of the latch sliding off. The door swings open and a small, graying wisp of a lady peers up at them through a pair of thick glasses. "Can I help you?"

"Hello, ma'am," Ray says politely, the very picture of the upstanding citizen he most certainly is not. "We're here to see Antonio Espera. My name is Josh Ray Person and this is Brad Colbert—we're friends of his from the Marine Corps."

A bulky figure appears from behind the door and the old woman ducks inside the house, muttering something about cookies and lemonade. Ray is grinning.

"Afternoon, Poke," says Brad.

"What the fresh hell." Tony folds his arms across his chest, a bemused expression passing over his face. "Do mine eyes deceive me?"

"They do not," Ray returns. He props his shades on his head and reaches a hand out to clap Tony's shoulder. "Apparently, you're the first pit stop on Operation Gay-ass Road Trip."

"You're on a road trip together? After what went down in Iraq?" Tony's eyebrows rise so high that Brad's afraid he might sprain something. "Y'all need to move to fucking Vermont and get married already—with all the bells and whistles and everything. Jesus Christ."

"Hey, man," Ray says, batting his eyelashes in a manner he probably thinks is coquettish but comes across more demented than anything. "Don't ask, don't tell."

Tony chuckles. "I'm not asking, I'm telling."

Ray inclines his head and jerks a thumb at Brad. "You know how he feels about the sacrament of holy matrimony."

"White boy can damn well speak for himself," Tony snorts. "Ow! Abuela—"

Tony's grandmother reemerges from within the house and pinches his arm again. He shuts up. "Is that any way to speak to your friends? And making them stand around outside instead of inviting them inside—tsk." She turns to them. Ray beams at her. "Please, come in."

"Oh, no," Brad starts, "we were just in the area and came to say hello. We know you weren't expecting guests—"

"Don't be stupid," she cuts in, soothing the words with a toothy smile. Brad blinks. "There is plenty of room here for you to stay the night."

"We've got a hotel room booked and everything," Brad sighs. "We wouldn't want to impose—"

She flaps her hand. "I insist."

"Abuelita insists, Brad," Ray repeats helpfully, eyes wide and unassuming.

"Are you sure?" he asks. She just lets out a loud, boisterous laugh and beckons them inside the house.

Ray follows her immediately, already babbling about how peanut butter cookies are his favorite and did she need any help with her car?—because he was great with cars. Brad turns to Tony. "Help me get our shit?"

Tony puts on an aggrieved expression but ends up trailing Brad to the curb regardless. "How's your libo been, Iceman?"

"Fine. Spent some quality time with the R1. Saw my parents and my sister last weekend. You?"

He leans against the side of the car as Brad reaches into the back seat. "L.A. was good. Wife and baby girl are coming up here to join me in a couple of days. We should do a barbeque or something."

"Sorry, Poke. No can do. We'll be leaving early tomorrow morning."

Tony takes the backpack out of his hands and looks at him askance as Brad pulls a large duffel bag out of the trunk. "Person looks tired, dog. You sure dragging him along on this vacation is going to help him recuperate?"

Brad slams the door shut and shrugs. "It'll give him something to do besides wallow aimlessly in Oceanside. At least he isn't inhaling Ripped Fuel anymore."

"I don't know," Tony says. "I mean, you're the one who's always had his six when it comes to this shit, so I suppose you know best." He slings the bag over a shoulder and they take the steps back up to the house. "It's just—seeing the class clown when he's too mellow or brooding or some shit always ruins the illusion. Lord knows boy could use a better brain-to-mouth filter even without the uppers, but sometimes I think I might prefer it when he's amped up and raring to go."

Brad's lips pull up into a small smile. "I'll be sure to tell him you said that."

Tony frowns at him. "Man, why you gotta do me like that?" He sighs. "I'm just saying. He spouts his bullshit all the goddamn time—but he's one of those magnetic types that people can't help but listen to. And even he can't fake health. You take one look at him and he's the textbook definition of exhausted."

Tony pushes the front door open.

"Then again, maybe we all are, dog. War did us a fucking number. Ray just makes his whiskey-tango brand of ridiculousness seem so normal that everything goes all Twilight Zone eerie when he's crashing. You know?"

"Yeah," Brad says. "I know."

 

 

Carolina is Tony's wife's grandmother and turns out to be of mixed Latin American descent. She whips up some of the best arroz con pollo that Brad has ever had, and apologizes so profusely about the house not having enough beds for the two of them to sleep separately that even Ray starts feeling bad about it.

"It's fine. I can take the floor," Brad offers. "Really, ma'am—we're trained for a lot worse."

She looks aghast. "We'll share the bed," Ray tells her bracingly, and Tony whisks her away before she can protest further.

Later, Tony brings them an extra set of blankets and complains offhandedly about being forced to sleep on the couch.

"We can go dig holes out on the lawn for old times' sake, if you like," Ray suggests.

"Fuck you," says Tony, but he's grinning when he walks out of the room.

It goes like this: Brad takes a shower first, and, in his infinite wisdom, mentions in passing that the water pressure's shot to shit. Ray, of course, volunteers his services immediately as recompense for overnight lodging, which is how Brad ends up on the cool tile of the cramped bathroom with an old toolbox cradled in his arms as Ray fiddles with the showerhead.

"I'm guessing this isn't how you envisioned the night going," Ray says, gritting his teeth as he twists the screwdriver.

Brad shifts against the counter and rubs his thumb over the blunt end of a hammer. "We were supposed to invite Poke out for drinks and get totally wasted." He lifts a shoulder. "The best-laid plans of mice and men."

Ray laughs. "Yeah, well. This is good, too."

"You think?"

"No hangover in the morning," he points out. "I still have to drive tomorrow, homes." There's a loud crack as he pulls the showerhead from the wall and hops off the toilet seat. "Scoot."

Brad slides across the linoleum to give him ready access to the sink. Ray hums a half-familiar tune as he rinses and Brad lets his eyes drift shut.

When he opens them again, Ray's perched precariously on the edge of the tub and is screwing everything back into place. He flips the water on and turns to Brad, jerks his head. "Well?"

"Much better," Brad says, squinting at the spray. "You should've gone into plumbing. I hear it's very lucrative."

"Mamma mia, let's a-go," Ray crows, faux Italian accent laid on thick. "I'd only do it if there was actually a Princess Peach waiting for me at the end of each job."

"Does that make me Luigi in this analogy?"

Ray snorts loudly and shoos Brad out of the bathroom so he can shower.

 

 

"Hell to the no," Ray says when he walks back into the room, loose flannel pants riding low on his hips and a damp towel slung around his neck, and realizes Brad's set up shop at the foot of the bed. "I'm sleeping on the floor."

"Are we really going to do this?"

"Up you go," he says, nudging Brad's arm with his foot. "Get your giant ass off the ground."

"Your driving could probably use a solid seven hours _on a bed_ , Ray."

"My driving is always fucking stellar, regardless of my quality of sleep," Ray corrects snippily. "Look, your feet and head are hitting the walls because you're so damn tall. That can't be comfortable."

It really, really isn't. Brad puts on an expression that he hopes conveys the depth of his reluctance and pulls himself onto the mattress.

Ray tosses his towel aside and slips into the cocoon of blankets spread across the carpet. "Comfy."

"I'm glad," Brad mutters. He wants to point out that there's more than enough room on the queen for two people, but he seems unable to get the thought out of his mouth. "Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

 

 

The thing with Ray and nightmares is—it's hard to tell whether or not he's even having one. He doesn't cry out or scream or sob. He doesn't thrash in the sheets, doesn't sleepwalk or sleep-talk or sleep-fight invisible people. All Brad knows is that it's the middle of the night, and for some reason, he is suddenly awake—and something in the back of his mind is telling him to get up.

Ray's curled tightly in on himself, back braced against the foot of the bed, and there is a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. His face twists into a not-quite grimace, knuckles white with the way they're fisted in the blankets. He is unnaturally still; Brad's not sure he's even breathing until he puts a hand to Ray's mouth and feels the occasional, shallow puff of air.

"Hey." Brad tugs at a tense forearm. "Hey, Ray. Wake up."

Ray's right hand reaches out and clamps itself around Brad's wrist, hard and bruising. He clenches his jaw and grips Ray's shoulder. "Come on, wake the fuck up."

He's not sure how long he spends kneeling on the floor trying to shake Ray awake—but his head spins a little from relief when Ray finally snaps out of it with a great gulp of air, spine straightening so that he's almost sitting upright. His eyes fly open. For a moment, they're wide and glassy and vacant, looking for things Brad can't see.

And then Ray exhales into the space between them, comes back into himself. His gaze clears, and a frown tugs at his mouth when he realizes Brad is hovering over him.

"Iceman. Did I wake you up?"

"You're a fucking asshole," Brad informs him. He lets go of Ray's shoulder and rubs his own wrist. "Has this been happening since we got back stateside?"

"Has what been happening?" Ray hedges.

"Ray."

"They're just dreams," he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. "I'm fine."

"The fuck you are," Brad says. "Does anyone else know about this?"

"No," Ray says mulishly. "And I'd like to keep it that way, thanks."

 _How can I help you?_ Brad wants to ask. Instead he just points at the bed, and Ray must get a clue from the look on Brad's face because he tumbles gracelessly onto the untouched side. He's out like a light the minute his head hits the pillow.

Brad slips under the sheets and stares at the patterns in the peeling wallpaper until dawn.

 

 

"See you white boys on the flipside. Liberty's over at the end of August—don't be late. Command would love the excuse to NJP your asses."

"Yeah." There's a strange expression on Ray's face that Brad can't parse. He files it away and says nothing. "See you, Poke."

 

 

"No fucking way, homes. I know your SOP. A hundred and fifty miles down the freeway on that bike of yours without breaking a sweat." Ray shakes his head. "I'll call you when I have a death wish."

"Joining the Marines wasn't a death wish?"

"That's not the same thing and you know it," Ray says, jabbing a finger in his direction. Brad grins when he takes off on a full-blown spiel.

They're somewhere in Nevada, long past Reno and well on their way to Salt Lake. Eventually, Ray lets Brad switch out with him. Despite Brad's reckless driving, Ray even manages to take a nap in the back, feet propped outside the open window and head pillowed on the lumpy duffel bag.

In the afternoon, they pull off Interstate 80 and grab a late lunch. Brad packs ice and water and sodas into the tiny cooler in the trunk. Ray, true to form, stocks up on Copenhagen and cigarettes and about a metric ton of junk food that Brad will end up discreetly partaking in somewhere down the line.

The entire vehicle smells like Marlboros and Slim Jims by the time they make it to the state border with Utah. Brad makes them stop at a gas station so he can pick up a six-pack of those little tree-shaped air fresheners to hang on the rearview mirror.

"You anal-retentive little bitch," Ray says conversationally.

"Why choose to live in stink and squalor if the Marine Corps isn't forcing you to?"

They check in to a motel just outside Salt Lake City an hour later. The room's got two twins and Ray tosses himself onto the one closest to the door, arms akimbo. He's the smallest person Brad knows that takes up so much goddamn space.

Brad flicks through the slim pickings on television and hits a local channel showing reruns of old South Park episodes, which tosses any touristy things they might have attempted straight out the window. Ray knows every episode in the first season by heart. He lies on his stomach, thin shirt riding up, and recites all the words with a sort of manic glee.

Brad falls asleep to Cartman's whiny voice singing about Kyle's mom. In the morning, Ray looks better rested than Brad's seen him in a long time.

 

 

" _It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you_ ," Ray belts out. In Nebraska, the strongest radio signal on the road comes in from some Golden Age soft rock station bleeding over from one of the bigger cities close to the border. " _There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_ —"

" _I bless the rains down in Africa_ ," Brad croons along with the fuzzy music pouring out from the sound system.

"Oh, God," Ray says. "I think War Scribe's infected us with his cheesy Rolling Stone bullshit."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everybody loves this song, Ray. Anyone who says they don't is either lying or hasn't heard it before.

It gets to the point of the day where it's too hot to roll down the windows but too stuffy inside the car to keep them up, so they stop at a gas station to get food and refuel. "So you'd tell me beforehand if we were on our way to see Trombley, right?" They're standing in line at the checkout counter and Ray's juggling a carton of orange juice and two hot dogs. "I'd need to mentally prepare myself for his psycho ways."

It's the first time all week that Ray's expressed an interest in their plans beyond the obligatory _where to_ 's every morning. Brad's surprised it's taken him this long. "We're not going to visit Trombley," he says.

"Okay," Ray says, pursing his lips. "So what are we doing here, Brad?"

They're in the middle of a gas station checkout line in Nowhere, Nevada, and it is not the right time or place to have this conversation.

It's just like Ray to engage it now.

"I wanted to see you," Brad supplies later, when they're on the road and not out in the open. It's not the whole truth, but it is part of one.

Ray casts him a sideways glance.

"It just seemed like a good idea at the time," he continues lamely, staring up at the ceiling of the car. _And you looked fucking terrible in Baghdad_ , he doesn't say. _I didn't know what to do. This was the only thing I could think of_.

"Alright," Ray says, and miraculously lets it drop. The word is, of course, a rain check: _I know that's not all, but when you decide that you want to talk about it—I'll listen_.

Brad closes his eyes and tries to nap. He can feel Ray's gaze slide toward him intermittently all the way to Lincoln.

 

 

Time always seems to dilate during these things. Long hours spent zooming through the countryside, past acres of farmland and rolling hills and mountains in the distance—at some point, all the discrete parts seem to blur together to form the warm, endless haze that is Midwestern America.

Such at it is, they don't quite realize they've made it to Chicago in time for the annual Fourth of July celebrations until Ray nearly cruises them straight into one of the parades.

"What the fuck," Ray says, cackling loudly. "Jesus, Brad. We almost missed America's most masturbatory holiday."

"If only we were so lucky," Brad says. Ray shakes his head.

"You know, technically, July Fourth isn't even the right day. Continental Congress formally voted to secede from Big Gay Britain on the second of July in 1776. What's wrong with this country? We couldn't even get our fucking day of independence right, and the American people expect us to know what the fuck we think we're doing overseas?"

"Oh, look," Brad interrupts flatly. "It's the Army."

There's a military display unfolding on one of the gentle, sloping fields of suburbia as they drive by. Ray follows his gaze out the window and wrinkles his nose in vague disgust. "Thank fuck the Corps doesn't make us parade around with that bullshit." He snorts. "What would First Recon even do? Rappel down a skyscraper? If I were a child, I would not want to see grown-ass men twirling goddamn flags around. At least roll some tanks out, dude. Don't be so fucking stingy with all that taxpayer money, you know what I’m saying?"

"If this is what they're using it for, they could stand to share a little with us."

"Damn straight."

 

 

If there's anything to be said about Independence Day, though—it's the food. Ray tells him as much through the mouthful of potato salad that's dripping down his front. Brad takes a prim sip of the lemonade Ray swiped from a sprawling community picnic they'd stumbled upon at the outskirts of the city and sends him a mildly concerned look. "You truly are an embarrassment to yourself and others."

Ray leans back against the park bench and licks barbecue sauce off his fingers, grinning widely. "How do you stand being seen in public with me?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

 

 

Ray has another nightmare.

When he resurfaces this time, it's like he's expecting Brad to be there, which is about equal parts oddly uplifting and fucking terrifying. Brad shakes it off and gets him a glass of cold water. Ray splashes about half of it on his shirt but manages to down the rest.

Brad hesitates for a second, and then—"What did you dream about?"

Ray's lips pull up faintly. "Getting carpal tunnel from too many combat jacks, homes. There's a nightmare for you."

Brad scrubs his eyes. When he moves to get up and climb back into bed, though, Ray reaches out to grip his arm, fingers thin and viselike.

There's no trace of weakness or self-pity in his gaze. Even in the throes of post-traumatic stress or whatever the fuck is wrong with him, Ray is still Ray.

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't let go, either. Brad sits back down, stretches his legs out and tries to get comfortable in the lumpy armchair.

In the morning, Ray's spread-eagle on the bed, warm hand still encircling Brad's wrist. Brad's neck is sore as hell. His throat constricts coarsely in protest when he tries to swallow.

He doesn't mention any of it. Neither does Ray.

 

 

The thing with Ray is—it's not like him to not talk about things. Brad exorcises his demons by speeding down winding roads on his R1 with casual indifference for whether or not he's going to lose control at the next hairpin turn. Ray rants, which necessitates an audience: talking aloud to himself has never been one of his neuroses. He thrives on verbal sparring, so it is fundamentally strange when he seems to drop off the face of the Earth after they return. It represents a jarring break from the norm. This is the reason Brad locks his motorcycle back inside the garage, the reason Brad gives up being alone for the rest of leave. This is the reason he packs a couple of bags and buys some maps and rents the Magnum. This is the reason.

(Brad's learned more about Ray's life than he ever cared to, is familiar with all the infinitesimal parts that make up who he is, and he still doesn't know how to fix him.)

There are other reasons, of course, but these are the only important ones.

 

 

"Erie's my fucking favorite. Look at that goddamn shoreline. Beautiful."

"I am rather partial to Superior myself."

"Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's all cold and mysterious—and fucking huge. Just like you."

"That is, quite possibly, the gayest thing you have ever said, Ray. I'm impressed."

"I do aim to please."

 

 

They roll into Philadelphia the day after catching the tail end of a late-night _Back to the Future_ marathon on the shitty hotel cable in Pittsburgh.

Steam billows out from the bathroom as Brad opens the door. "Doc Bryan and Kocher are in town," he says, toweling his hair.

Ray looks up from Brad's computer. "Are we going to surprise them?"

"I think the entire eastern seaboard knows we're here."

He makes a face. "Wasn't my fault the volume got stuck on deafening."

"You're right, Ray." Brad raises his eyebrows appraisingly. "It's not your fault that you broke the knob in your haste to turn it up when _I'm With You_ started playing on the only station we had reception for."

Ray flips him a rude gesture and slams the laptop shut. "You should thank your lucky goddamn stars that I didn't accidentally on purpose jam the tuner on Country Music Radio."

"You're right," Brad repeats. "I would've had to kill you."

 

 

Eric seems to be recuperating well after a month away from Captain America's caustic influence. Tim's a bit more abrasive about things, but then, he's never been one to mince words. They go out for drinks and Tim bitches offhandedly about everything, as he is wont to do, which Ray engages with delighted relish.

"How's the missus?" Brad asks, after the fourth round. Ray's on the other side of the room trying to wheedle something free from the bartender and Tim's just excused himself to the restroom.

Eric blows over the neck of his bottle. "Fine."

"Didn't want to come out east with you?"

He shrugs. "She's not on leave."

"Ah."

"It is what it is." A server comes by with round five and Eric tips her with a tattered ten. "What are your plans?"

"We'll probably see Gunny and the LT in Baltimore, Hasser in Virginia. And I think Rudy's still visiting Pappy in North Carolina."

Eric looks faintly amused. "Is there a point to all of this?"

"Must there be an ulterior motive? Can't we just want to see people?"

"You. Want to see people. I never thought I'd see the day."

Brad sends him a long-suffering look. "People change."

"You're so full of shit." Eric grins. "Don't lie—we've known each other for too long for that. You're doing this for Person, you big sap."

"How do you know he wasn't the one who put me up to this?" Brad asks.

Eric glances at him patiently. "Has anyone ever been able to force you to do anything?"

Brad rolls his eyes and looks away. Ray's watching with avid interest as the bartender mixes him a drink. "Yeah, okay. You got me. The Iceman has a heart."

He follows Brad's gaze across the room. "He looks better than he did the last time I saw him. You must be doing something right."

"One hopes," he replies, and takes another sip of his beer.

 

 

He and Ray don't get back to the hotel until around three in the morning. Ray doesn't even bother changing out of his clothes before he's face planting straight into bed.

Brad's about to doze off when Ray flips over, eyes glittering in the ambient light. "I couldn't sleep the entire first two weeks we were back." The earlier slur in his voice is gone, replaced with something sharper, more prickly.

Brad turns toward him.

"Third week was easier. Got two-hour intervals in at a time. Still wasn't enough."

Ray rustles the sheets and stares up at the ceiling.

"They're not nightmares. I'm not scared or whatever—just. Numb. And I wake up and it feels like I'm aching all the way to my goddamn bones because I'm so tense at night."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Still."

Ray slips a hand underneath his pillow. "I called my mom and she told me to see a therapist. Can you believe that shit?"

Brad closes his eyes. "She's worried about you."

Ray exhales. "Yeah, well. I can sort my problems out on my own. Where's the trust?"

"She wants to help. Maybe she just doesn't know how to."

There's a trill of laughter in the darkness. "Yeah?"

Brad's fairly certain Ray knows they're not talking about his mother anymore. "She's trying her best to figure it out."

A brief moment of hesitation, and then: "It's a good start." When he looks over again, Ray is smiling.

 

 

"Congratulations, Lieutenant," Ray chirps. "Heard you were promoted."

Nate's mouth tilts up. "It's Captain, Corporal."

Ray whistles appreciatively. "Moving up in the world, I see."

Baltimore is sweltering in the summer heat but for some reason they're outside anyway, sitting on the patio in Nate's parents' backyard. The canopy of trees does little to shield them from the sun.

"Hope command isn't fucking you over too badly, Gunny," Brad says.

Mike crosses his arms and lifts a shoulder. "It'll pass."

"Fucking Encino Man," Ray says with feeling, and Mike sighs.

"I'll be fine. Keep your heads down."

"They'll pull the sticks out of their assholes. Battalion's going to need as many people as they can get back in Iraq," Brad tells him. "You'll see."

They get crepes at some place Nate swears by for lunch, about half a block away from the house. Ray's dripping with butterscotch by the end of his first crepe and is forced to change into a marginally less dirty shirt at Mike's insistence.

"The butterscotch is the best part, Ray," Nate says, voice dry.

"I agree," Ray replies. He wipes his mouth, smiling broadly, and goes to order another. Mike shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth jerks up.

At night, they have dinner with Nate's parents and his sisters, who are home from college. The family is warm and kind—and they love Ray, because Ray has an uncanny knack for reading people. He knows how they tick, what to say, how to act in a way that will elicit the specific reaction he wants, even at his worst. This is just Ray's natural state of being, the baseline for everything he does, an interpersonal manifestation of his situational awareness. Brad is never sure whether to be supremely uncomfortable or plain impressed. Usually, it makes him want to pick Ray's brain apart just to see how the fuck it works.

Nate's mother insists on packaging liberal helpings of leftover chicken potpie for the road. "You boys take care of yourselves," Mike says before they scoot off towards Virginia later in the evening. "Don't get into too much trouble."

Nate clasps Brad's arm and nods at Ray. "See you back at Pendleton."

"Later, homes," says Ray. Brad waves. They pull out of the driveway with a loud squeak.

 

 

Walt's apartment in Winchester is tiny, but being the gentleman that he is, he refuses to let them to stay in some dingy motel. "What kind of host do you think I am?" he asks indignantly.

"Bless you, Walt," Ray drawls, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "It means so much that you'd let us crash in your piss-poor excuse for a house."

"Don't be an ungrateful jackass," Walt says. "Look, I even have sleeping bags for you."

"Your thoughtfulness is commendable," Ray rasps in a passable impression of Godfather's voice. Walt rolls his eyes.

They make popcorn in the kitchen while waiting for a Family Guy marathon to come up on FOX. "How's everyone else?" Walt inquires, sifting through the bag to toss out all the burnt kernels.

"Nate's a captain, Gunny's still in limbo, Brad's a brand spanking new staff sergeant, and Poke, as always, is opining about the white man's burden," Ray rattles off in quick succession. "Doc Bryan's doing some secret ops shit he isn't really allowed to talk to anyone about, which means he'll probably turn up dead in a ditch somewhere in a couple of months. Kocher's Kocher." He grins. "We're collecting shit for a fucking First Recon yearbook, Walt. What's your quote?"

"Go fuck yourself, you inbred hick," Walt says wryly. "Word for word."

Ray crams a handful of popcorn into his mouth and chews with his mouth wide open.

"Sergeant," he says later, after Ray's drifted off in the nest of his sleeping bag. There's a tiny frown pulling at Walt's mouth, like he's not sure how to proceed.

Brad blinks. "Yes?"

"My enlistment runs out in September."

"And?"

"I don't—" He scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't know what to do."

Brad raises his eyebrows. "I'm not the best person to ask about career advice, Walt."

"All I wanted was to be a Marine," he plows on. "I still do. But not—Jesus. I can't go back there."

"Then don't," Brad says. Walt looks down at the floor. "Walt. Hey." Brad sits up. "You did good work out there, Corporal. You did your job. Don't doubt that."

"I know," he says. He sounds like he really wants to believe it.

"Listen. If you want to reenlist, then reenlist. If you want to go civilian, then go civilian. Do what you want, Walt. You're the one who has to live with the decision."

Walt lets out a short breath and cards a hand through his hair. "You're right."

Brad sinks back into his sleeping bag. "If worst comes to worst, there's always consulting."

"Yeah," Walt says, smiling a little.

 

 

They get to Charlotte, North Carolina at around noon the next day. Pappy makes it clear that he doesn't actually live in the city but that it's the closest metropolitan area with legitimate physical therapy to help with his limp, so he's taken up temporary housing there before having to report for duty again.

"Pappy's a country gentleman," Rudy says, grinning. "He prefers the mountainous wilds."

"How _is_ the foot, by the way?" Ray asks. "Battle scars giving you any trouble?"

"Things aren't as great as I'd hoped," he replies, curling a hand around his cane. "But I'll make do."

Rudy and Brad go jogging in the evening, because apparently that's Rudy's idea of a good time. Ray stays behind and kicks back with Pappy; he gives Brad a jaunty little wave as they walk out the front door.

They take a four-mile trail of jagged, weaving terrain. By the time they're halfway through it, Brad is drenched with perspiration. "What's battalion said about Pappy's status?" he asks, peeling his shirt off and slinging it over a shoulder.

Rudy blinks sweat out of his eyes. "He got a Bronze Star, if that's what you're asking."

"It isn't."

Rudy sighs. "I don't know, brother. His foot got fucked up pretty badly. Command will probably push us around until they find something that fits.

Brad nods.

"How's your team?"

"I'm fine. Walt will be fine. Trombley's got another year before his enlistment runs out—I think he's completing BRC in the fall. Ray—well, you saw him. He could be better." Brad shrugs. "So could we all."

"Amen," Rudy says, panting a little from the uphill haul.

It's hard to remember sometimes that the cogs of the Marine Corps machine keep turning even when half of Bravo Company's on leave. There's boot camp and SOI, jump school and mountain warfare, and fresh recruits living in the familiar barracks at Pendleton. The platoon's still getting medals up the ass from HQ. It doesn't make up for anything that happened, but if shiny brassware's the only thing they're going to get out of it besides a couple of _Rolling Stone_ articles about how terrible the war is, he'll take it.

Marines make do.

Rudy throws him the bottle of water strapped against his pack. "Part two of War Scribe's epic is supposed to be coming out in a couple of days."

"Have you spoken to him since—" Brad makes a vague gesture in the air. He chugs half of it down in one go.

"No." They skitter half a block downhill and round the bend back to Pappy's apartment building. "But you should take a look at the first part, Iceman." Rudy smiles. "It's not bad for a wine-sipping, communist dick-suck."

 

 

Rudy sends them packing the next morning with a copy of _Rolling Stone_ 925 and copious amounts of coffee.

"I fucking hate Justin Timberlake," Ray says, eyeing the cover of the magazine with distaste. "I don't know if I've articulated that before."

"Multiple times, actually."

"It's like Reporter did it on purpose."

"I'm sure it was just a coincidence."

"I like Christina just fine. Not a fan of the black hair, though—the blonde looks much better on her. Come on, Rolling Stone. This is such bullshit."

"Shut up and drive the damn car, Ray," Brad says.

"Okay," he says, dragging his eyes up to the road. "When we get to Nashville, I'm going to the Country Music Hall of Fame, though, and you're coming with me."

"Your misguided attempts to reform me are completely unnecessary."

"On the contrary," Ray says, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "You're going to be fucking blown away."

The museum is impressive and admittedly classier than Brad had envisioned. The building itself is fraught with overt symbolism: the yawning windows and the diamond of the radio mast and the record needle shooting up into the sky. Ray drags him through all the exhibits, talking a mile a minute. He nearly gets caught taking flash photos with a disposable camera three times at the Eddy Arnold collection alone.

Ray stays at the Rotunda the longest, stares at all the bronze plaques with a scrutiny he usually reserves for particularly recalcitrant radios.

"Well?" he prompts when they're ensconced in the car once more and on their way to a motel off I-40.

"It was nice," Brad says.

"Ha!" Ray says, waving his hand violently in Brad's direction.

"You still can't sing it in the car."

Ray shoots him an incredibly wounded look. "Why the fuck not?"

"You don't have the right voice for it," he says.

Ray flips the bird and switches to a radio station that happens to be blasting Dolly Parton. "Fuck off, ass-wipe. You don't know shit." He swerves between lanes and Brad decides to let it drop.

 

 

Ray is reading the article when Brad steps out of the bathroom. His eyes flick up as Brad sinks onto the bed across from him, and then down again to scan the pages.

"How is it?" Brad asks carefully.

"Not as bleeding-heart liberal as I'd expected," Ray says lightly, passing him the magazine. "War Scribe has a way with words."

Brad skims the first couple of pages, winces a little at the conversation about shitting. When he looks up, Ray is watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. "He really didn't hold back, did he?"

"I'm not reupping, Brad."

For a second, Brad's words choke in his throat. He coughs, and studiously does not think about the prospect of going back into a warzone without the best RTO in the damn business. "Yeah, I had an idea."

"Really." He flops back onto the neatly folded bedspread.

After a long moment of silence, Brad asks, "When did you decide?"

"I don't know. We came back and I just knew. I didn't know how to tell anyone."

"You could've just said something. Walt did."

"That's because Walt is Walt."

Brad frowns at him. "What, are you afraid people will think you're weak because you don't want to go back? That's not like you, Ray. Since when do you give a rat's ass about that shit?"

"I wasn't—"

"Fuck what everyone else thinks."

Ray rolls over. His mouth is set in a thin line. "I didn't know how to tell _you_ , jackass."

Brad's brow furrows. "What the fuck? You thought _I'd_ think you were weak—or—what, you couldn't trust me—"

"Are you being purposely obtuse?" Ray cuts in, impatient. "Use your fucking head."

Brad takes a breath and holds it. He's never had a problem with letting people see whatever limited facial expressions he has in his arsenal of emotion. He just carries himself in a way that brooks no argument, and no one fucking questions him about it because of reputation. Ray has always been harder to figure out, smokescreens of pure bullshit preventing almost anyone from getting a proper handle on him. He swaps masks out like flavors of the week.

Now, Ray is staring at him with a particular air of vulnerability, mouth canted downward in a way that Brad's not sure he's ever seen on him before. It takes him a while to catch up.

Brad exhales slowly. "You don't owe me shit, Ray. You don't owe anybody anything."

Ray rests his head on his arms. "No?" His voice cracks a little.

"I mean—" He pauses, trying to search for the right words.

It fucking figures that Ray's about to break apart at the seams and is still trying to look out for everyone else.

"You know it's going to be a fucking shit show without you out there. You're the best. But it was shitty when we were there before, and it's going to be shitty when we go back, regardless of who's still with us. We'll be alright."

"I'm so sure," Ray says, but the tightness around his eyes starts to fade.

"Have a little faith."

He snorts. "Says the atheist."

"Even atheists believe in something. Science. War." Brad smiles. "Themselves."

"Yeah," says Ray, rolling his eyes and flipping onto his back again. "I guess they do."

 

 

Three and a half more days of cross-country driving and then they're on the West Coast again, slipping into Oceanside with a bunch of melted ice in a cooler and two bags full of dirty clothing. Ray's sunburnt from the Grand Canyon and Brad's not sure he'll ever recover from being coerced into attempted cow tipping in Oklahoma, but somehow, they manage to make it back with their collective sanity largely intact.

Brad drives the entire home stretch from Arizona to California while Ray dozes in the back. They get in at around four, the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows.

He drops Ray off at the Lodge with Chinese takeout.

"You're a fucking closet romantic, you know that, Brad?" Ray is beaming at him through the rolled-down window, half a spring roll stuffed in his mouth. "Honestly. Who does this shit?"

Brad shrugs. "You looked like you needed it."

Ray contemplates this. "Sometimes you hit the nail right on the head, homes."

"Even a broken clock's right twice a day."

"You sound like Pappy, Iceman. Falling back on cliché? I'm disappointed."

"Just because it's a cliché doesn't mean it's not true."

Ray grins again and steps backward onto the curb, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where skin is starting to peel.

Brad guns the engine. "See you, Ray."

Ray gives him a lazy salute and jams the rest of the spring roll down his throat. "See you, Sergeant."

 

 

Ray calls him sometime at the end of October, in the middle of the night. "So First Recon is back in the game."

"You heard." There's a soft giggle over the line. "Are you inebriated, Corporal?"

" _All I can taste is champagne, another day down the drain_ —"

"Ray."

"Yes, I am. Who cares? I talked to Gunny about it—"

"About being drunk?"

"No, asshole. About going back."

"To Iraq?"

"Where the fuck else?"

"What'd he tell you?"

"Stay put. Be a civilian."

"He's right, you know." Brad grins. "Plus, why go if I won't be there?"

"You motherfucking son of a bitch. Jesus, I knew Walt and Doc and the LT were gone—but you? Where the hell are you going?"

"British exchange program. Royal Marines."

"How long?"

"Couple years, maybe?"

"Ah." For a while, he just listens to Ray breathe into the receiver. Then: "Hey, Brad."

"What."

"I'm gonna be a rock star."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Brad turns the thought over in his head. "Save a spot in the front row at your concerts for me."

"Country rock star, Brad. Just to piss you off."

"I'll buy a pair of earplugs."

Ray laughs, the sound soft and high and lilting. "Fuck you."

The line clicks. Dial tone.

Brad goes back to sleep.


End file.
